Modern Day Marlowe
by Danny Ann
Summary: A young journalist shows up on the steps of 221B in the hopes of having an interview with Sherlock Holmes; a man unknown to the public, but certainly a shining figure in her eyes.


John Watson's alarm clock was shrill and demanding. Its noise grated on his ears, sending tingles of disgust from his eardrums right down his spine. It only rang out once, but once was enough.

The ex-army doctor threw off the tangle of blankets that surrounded him, kicking his pajama clad legs out in order to free himself of the warmth and comfort that each piece of cloth brought. When every layer had been removed and thrown unceremoniously to the ground, he stormed out of his already opened bedroom door, down the steps that led to the main level of 221B, and pushed open the door.

There, looking relaxed and unbothered in his usual chair, violin balanced on the black leather arm while his eyes flicked across the instruments bow, sat the source of John's wake up call.

"We had an agreement," growled the doctor, his voice less than threatening as it cracked with unshaken exhaustion and ascended several pitches as it always did when he was angry.

Sherlock Holmes whipped his violin bow through the air, his lip curling only the slightest at the satisfying _whoosh _that he received as the air formed around the long item. But the partial smile faded quicker than it had come.

"There's someone here." he stated, eyes still not moving towards his friend.

John's own eyes flickered away from Sherlock, instead occupying their time by scanning the messy surroundings of their home in a careful but quick manner. The flat was in its usual disorderly state. The piles of books awaiting the day that they would tumble to the ground still stood precariously on tables and chairs, surrounded by the heaps of books that had already seen that day. Every crooked painting and picture frame had still not been straightened and shelves still drooped under the weight of seemingly useless knickknacks. Everything that had compiled to make 221B Baker Street home to John was still in place and there were no signs of any new presences.

"There's no one else – "

Another harsh scratching noise interrupted his protest. John clapped his hands over his ears, eyes squinting and teeth grinding together. Sherlock still held both instrument and bow at the ready, but his eyes had finally moved to acknowledge his friend's presence.

"There's someone here." he repeated after seeing that John was making no move to speak again. "And Mrs. Hudson is out."

John stared at his friend for a few moments, the bit of information that had been presented to him still walking the path of his brain until it arrived at the conclusion that he had been awakened by his fully conscious flatmate to answer the door.

Before he could make any movements of anger towards this final supposition and the man presenting it to him, the bell signaling a new arrival at 221B's door rang out, cutting off any train of thought that John had established. With a sigh, he ran both hands through his hair in an attempt to rid himself of at least some of his unruly appearance before descending the stairs and reaching to open the door. Behind him, the air filled with Sherlock's finer musical talent.

The girl who stood outside of 221B was one of small proportions. She was young, the skin on her face pale except for the red tint that the cold London air had brought to it. Despite her attempts to cover herself with a thick coat and scarf, the gloveless hands that gripped the strap of her bag were white with cold and effort and her pink lips trembled slightly with the struggle of holding back shivers.

Upon seeing someone open the door, her fingers curled tighter around the bag and she set her shoulders a bit higher.

"I'm sorry to bother you." she choked out in a voice tinged sharply with nerves. Her dark eyes had quickly scanned John's figure and taken in his appearance, registering it as a mistake on her part for coming so early in the morning. An opaque cloud of white burst from between her chapped lips as she let out a breath, her shoulders slumping slightly before she brought herself to full height again.

"I would like to speak with Mr. Sherlock Holmes."

Regina Unger sat in the black chair that rested across from John's own seat. She had been left alone for the moment. She sat leaning forward, hands clasped tightly in her lap, lips pursed, and eyes wandering. John, finally having gotten a chance to dress himself in his normal clothing choice of jumper and jeans, stood in the kitchen. He was filling the kettle with water in preparation for making a quick cup of tea for their visitor. Normally any client asking assistance of Sherlock Holmes at this early hour would have been left to go on without a warm beverage. However, the nervous girl in their living room sent a twinge of sympathy through John.

Sherlock sat at the kitchen table, his eyes watching John move as the doctor went from cupboard, to sink, to stove, to cupboard. His thin fingers tapped out an unorganized beat on the small sliver of wood that was available on the table. The rest of the piece of furniture was covered in mutilated technology and containers of unknown liquid along with expensive looking but scuffed up science equipment. The hand that wasn't keeping track of his mind's song was twisting the knobs on his microscope back and forth as if memorizing the movement. This was a silly idea considering he already had the piece of equipment's functions committed to memory.

"Try to be nice, Sherlock." John turned to face his friend whose eyes were still fixated on him. He leaned back against the counter. "She looks like a nervous wreck and I'm sure your usual behavior won't help."

Sherlock said nothing and made no noise, but his eyes shifted in a way that John was far too familiar with to not notice. He let out a breath and turned back to the task of making tea. Behind him he heard the chair legs scrape against the kitchen floor and the small swish of clothes that his ears, in the past months with Sherlock, had trained themselves to listen for.

Regina's frame shifted as the obscure shadow of another person darkened the corner of her vision. She turned her head and almost started when her mind immediately worked out who it was. Sherlock trained his eyes on her, flicking them up and down, right and left, covering her and the area around her in a matter of seconds before he then moved to the chair across from her and took a seat. His eyes were now satisfied with the task of meeting Regina's own. Her fingers twitched.

"No."

Regina blinked several times, her lips parted as if she were going to speak and her face relaxed in a sign of awe. She thought to spit out some sort of compliment towards his deduction skills, for she knew exactly what question he was answering, but she instead pressed her lips in a tight line as she realized what that two lettered word meant for her.

"Why?"

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow; the closest he would come to looking impressed.

John entered at that moment with the tea. He placed the tray on one of the more steady stacks of boxes and books then took up two of the three cups. One he handed to Regina who thanked him and smiled while the other he kept with him as he dragged one of the few empty chairs over to sit with the two. Sherlock, John knew, would get his drink when and if he wanted it.

Sherlock's eyes flicked over Regina's hands as she took the cup from his flatmate then returned to her face.

Silence fell over the small group. Regina took many small sips of her tea in an effort to burn past the plug in her throat. Her eyes didn't leave the pale man who sat across from her. Sherlock sat with one set of his fingers pressed onto his cheek as he leaned his head to the side just slightly. His cool eyes were narrowed in a way that wasn't noticeable to anyone but those who knew him. Regina didn't notice.

"So what's your name?" John asked kindly after clearing his throat.

Regina finally took her eyes from the Consulting Detective and directed her attention towards John. "Regina Unger," she replied.

"And what exactly are you here for?"

"Well, you see, I'm – "

"A shiny new journalist here to ask for an interview with Sherlock Holmes," Sherlock cut her off. He widened his eyes in mock excitement, speaking his own name in the tone of an admiring fan.

Regina and John both stared at him. He shot them a questioning look before rolling his eyes and letting out an exasperated breath. John thought he heard him mutter something along the lines of "simpletons." Sherlock moved his gaze to Regina.

"Let's start with the simple bits then,"

John rolled his eyes and muttered an "oh God" under his breath. There was the familiar air of confidence that now surrounded Sherlock, piqued sharply as it was when he was about to show off his intelligence to a newcomer. Regina glanced nervously at the doctor then back at the genius in front of her. He straightened in his seat and she lowered her tea.

"The ring finger on your right hand is sporting an inflamed Writer's Bump which not only shows the constant use of writing in your everyday life, but also, by the red of it, shows you've been writing very recently – perhaps you thought to write a letter instead and perhaps that bulge in the front pocket of your bag is the crumpled paper you decided against while you were standing outside the door for an hour and a half – "

Regina glanced down at the bag to her left that she had placed on the floor.

" – along with showing that you are right handed and you favor pen and paper against the new age of typing on the computer. Pen because there are slight ink smudges on your hands that you haven't bothered to wash off despite being on your way to see someone who is potentially a key in your rising career. Not only that, but it shows a certain fondness that you hold. Maybe it's for the simple act of writing or maybe for the specific action of writing with an ink pen."

"How do you know I'm a joun – "

"You've got two issues of newspaper sticking out of your bag. One is a rather dated issue from last month and the other is recent. The older issue shows that you need something in the paper. Combined with your writing lifestyle, the obvious path is journalist. The newer issue only leads to concrete that theory. You have to know the news. What other reason would a young girl, fresh from the university have to get hold of it so early?"

Regina blinked, taking it all in. She was aware that her jaw had dropped. In a swift decision to hide her shock as the need to speak, she spat out another question. "And 'shiny new' would mean?"

"You're young and you don't like using the computer to write. You haven't been at this long."

Regina's shoulders slumped slightly in defeat. He was right.

"You're also still using a school bag."

Regina knew he was only throwing it in to taunt her. He could have easily held that fact back. She narrowed her eyes are Sherlock and set her shoulders again. She put on her best offended voice and hoped John hadn't introduced her presence to Sherlock with the words she had used at the door. "Bravo, Mr. Holmes, but I'm actually here for Dr. Watson."

Sherlock's smug expression flickered for a split second before it was back again. He made a sound close to a laugh. "Bravo yourself, Ms. Unger. That particular issue from a month ago happens to be the first and only time anything about my name has made its way into the newspaper alongside that of Detective Inspector Lestrade from Scotland Yard, and the newer issue is folded down on the third page which happens to be the page that my brief article has been published on. You're here for me."

Regina relaxed back in her seat. Her hands no longer gripped her tea cup with unnatural strength. "There happens to be another interesting article on the same page that I have marked."

"The case of missing Melody Beckett is hardly interesting," Sherlock replied, leaning his head on his hand once more. "It was the father. The closest one to the case. He was trying to hide his guilt from cameras and himself by cowering behind the display of a weak and broken man. An amateur mistake that is made far too often. And you're sitting in my chair."

"I'm what?"

"You are sitting in my chair." He repeated slowly, separating each word.

Regina stared at him in silent questioning.

"Your posture was far from comfortable until a moment ago. You were tense, playing with your hands, avoiding looking at anything for too long; all the obvious ticks of someone who is out of their element. Normally, a person who is uncomfortable with their surroundings and is offered a seat – a place of small sanctuary – will take what is closest and easiest. But no, not you. You crossed a foreign room for that chair specifically. Why? Because you knew it was mine. How? Because you're clever. And why would you want to show me? Because you wanted to challenge me." He inclined his head slightly towards her and Regina read the action clearly.

_I accept._

She leaned forward again. "Mr. Holmes, this story is important. My editor is the strictest one in England. He'll tolerate no late work and nothing ordinary."

"Obviously."

"Then why is it a no?" A hint of desperation was leaking into her voice, filling the small crack at the end until it was overflowing.

Sherlock stared at her, meeting her eyes in a silent stare. Finally he let the muscles holding the orbs halfway closed relax. "My schedule is irregular."

With that, he stood from his seat and strode across the room until he disappeared into the kitchen.

Regina stared after him, her mouth slightly agape and her eyes wide with astonishment. The tea in her hands was long forgotten.

"Uh…I'm very sorry about that." John spoke up for the first time. He had been watching his friend in stunned silence. Partially because of the quickly delivered deductions that he would never get used to and partially because of the clear toss away of his early request to treat the young girl with kindness. It was yet another action that he would never adjust to. Besides, it was well known to him that there was no use in trying to interrupt Sherlock Holmes when he was talking. There simply wasn't room for anyone else's words.

"He can get carried away sometimes."

Regina stared at Dr. Watson as if only just realizing he was there. She wanted to ask if Sherlock was always like that. She wanted to know exactly how the man functioned in everyday situations; a walk round town, a trip to the store – did he even _do _those things? Or were his days completely flipped around and backwards? But she kept herself quiet for fear of ruining what she had already been given.

"If you want," John continued, moving to put his tea down and reaching instead for the closed laptop on a mostly cleared off desk, "I could let you look at my blog. I've written up every case I've done with him so far and I'm sure you could find useful information there."

"No," Regina answered before he had fully opened the computer. "No," she repeated in a calmer voice. "That's perfectly alright, Dr. Watson." She stood from her seat, her head still swimming and her expression still set in one of a half conscious girl. She managed a smile at the older man to reassure him that there would be no need for his help.

Regina left 221B with the small smile she had given Dr. Watson still oddly on her face. She stepped back onto the London street with a slight spring in her step.

She grabbed a taxi and had her pen and paper out as soon as her seatbelt was on. She hesitated, pen tip making just the slightest mark on the blank page. She glanced at the window of 221B and fancied she could see a tall shadow before the driver pulled away from the sidewalk and merged with the common flow of traffic.

Maybe she would invest in a laptop.

It was close to a week later when John Watson paused at the door to his flat. This close to the building, he could hear the melodious violin music floating down from the open window above. This open window was the unspoken signal Sherlock started to give in order to inform his flatmate that an experiment had gone wrong while he was out. The flat was bad enough to need one of the single elements the dark-haired man never willfully welcomed in: fresh air.

But that wasn't what stopped the doctor.

Taped to the door of 221B, right below the worn metal of the numbers that marked the flat's address, was a small newspaper clipping. There was no picture, only a medium length article with the title in larger font above the paragraphs. What stopped John in his tracks was the name of the author, typed in tiny print below the title.

He pulled the clipping down, careful not to rip or damage it in any way, then turned his key in the lock, and made his way upstairs.

The final note came to a jagged end, its last words turning to a scream before dying.

"Graceful," John commented after removing his hands from his ears. He held up the newspaper clipping. "Have you seen this? _Modern Day __Marlowe_." He glanced from the paper to his friend, "It's by Regina Unger."

"Read it to me," Sherlock replied without turning to face his friend. He was intent on inspecting his polished instrument, eyes searching for any damage his abrupt end had brought. After a moment of silence in which John stared at Sherlock in an attempt to figure out if he was serious, the taller turned his neck to regard his flatmate.

"If you don't mind," he added to his earlier statement, throwing in a tight smile that seemed a little more genuine than John was used to seeing.

John blinked, cleared his throat, and closed the door behind him. He made his way to his usual chair, voice carrying on as he went.

The article was simple and short. A small amount of text that, even without the rest of the paper, John could tell would only be nestled in the corner of one of the obscure pages. It was a work, however, that he thought could have made it in a better spot; a place where people would actually be bothered to read it. It took John less than three minutes to finish reciting the story, a story that described Sherlock Holmes' mind better than John himself had ever managed. It was riddled with intelligence that could be expected from the detective himself. Every word describing the man was more illustrious and complimentary than the last. And yet, it was strategic. Never did it cross the border towards gushing or blind love, never did it insult the deduction skills of Sherlock Holmes, and, most importantly, never did it mention names or places. Something that John was sure his friend appreciated beyond the fact that words such as "scintillating" and "effulgent" were being used to describe him and his mind.

It was another five minutes of requests from Sherlock – "paragraph three, line eight, start from the sixth word", "paragraph one, line six, start from the second word" – before John was finally able to place the clipping down. Sherlock had resumed his playing. The notes had been kept quiet so that every word John spoke could still be heard clearly. It was a moment before John spoke.

"So…are you going to explain?"

Sherlock paused in his playing then resumed at a quicker pace.

_Explain what?_

"She wrote that article like she's known you for years."

"There are other clever people in the world, John. Not nearly as clever as myself, but she's getting there."

John didn't bother to point out the direct reference to the young girl. "You're not…angry?"

Sherlock cut his piece short again and lowered the instrument. He gave John a questioning look, his eyebrows knotted together in one of those rare signs of confusion.

"Why would I be angry?"

"Well…" John picked up the clipping again, scanning it with his eyes. He returned his look to Sherlock. "She did write a whole story on you – a rather detailed one at that – without even asking for permission."

Sherlock's face relaxed instantly. "I gave her permission."

"You…when?" John stared at his friend in amazement. When, in the short exchange in which Sherlock had done nothing but show off, had an agreement been arranged between the young journalist and Sherlock Holmes?

He received no answer. But, then again, he hadn't really expected to get one.

It was another week before there was a thin, white envelope sitting on the kitchen table, placed neatly on the only open space next to a container of greenish liquid and a stack of petri dishes filled with various ashes. The envelope was blank except for the neat, cursive handwriting that displayed the name _Mr. Sherlock Holmes _in black ink.

The envelope had already been neatly torn open, but John didn't bother to snoop any further.

Sherlock was allowed to keep the illusion of having secrets.

**A/N: My first post on here and my first completed Sherlock fic. I hope it was enjoyable. Maybe I'll make a real story based on this? The thought has flitted through my mind. Would love feedback!**

**_xDA_**


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